


love love (or whatever, take a number)

by decidingdolan



Series: theopolis (use at your own discretion) [8]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: (semi) established relationship, Drabble, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Narrator's POV, Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 17:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1867179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Harry on their days off. Conversations on the couch and kisses on the forehead. Impromptu confessions and all-too-detailed justifications. Surprising acts and flushes on the cheeks. Crazy twitter typing and screaming in front of the TV.</p><p>Them, as they are. Here, as presented to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. #RESPECTtheBEARD

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taytytay](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=taytytay).



> Title taken from Richard Siken's poem, Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.

 

 

> _"Maybe happiness is this: not feeling like you should be elsewhere, doing something else, being someone else._
> 
> _\- Isaac Asimov"_

* * *

 

“Harry.”

“I know.”

“You’ve got a—“

“I know.”

“Is it actually a—“

“Pete. It’s just a beard, grow up, for fuck’s sake.”

You loosened your hold on the suitcase handle, a finger grazing the little facial hair on your chin that you’d managed to grow in the past couple of days.

It’s just a beard. A short circle beard (as originally intended), or the fragments of one. Last you checked in the mirror, there’s an outline of a moustache above your lips, and the trimmed goatee at your chin.

He was laughing, cheeks pink, “I can’t believe you did it—“

You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, “I was going for a darker look, okay. Didn’t want anyone to recognize me in public.” You’d stepped into the doorway, Peter retreating into the room. (You were gone for a few days, and you’d called him up to meet when you got off the plane. Little did you expect he would take the news as _well_ as he did.)

(The news. Because this was big. This was never-before-seen. As in, a whole Harry Osborn makeover.)

“Paps were following me to Wimbledon,” you continued, threw yourself down on the first couch you saw in the living room, “Annoying as fuck.”

You glanced over at Peter, who’d sat down next to you on the couch, his eyes glued to you, lips still curled up in a delighted grin (the way he was as a child when he’d caught you in a hide-and-seek game, which he always won). You tilted your head in his direction, shrugged, “Why couldn’t I watch my tennis game in peace?”

He wrapped a hand around the back of your neck, pressed his lips on the top of your head, “You could’ve,” he muttered, “If you’d stayed here with me.”

You wiggled free of his grip, hand pushing his chest away, “Yea, like you’d understand, Pete.” You fumbled around in your jacket pocket, and fished out a signed tennis ball, “Rafael Nadal was a _beast_.”

And you’d meant it.

A live tennis game? Seriously.

_Love love._

(far from the ‘zero’ technical meaning of the term)

He snatched the ball from you (“Hey!” you’d blurted out.) and was tossing it in his hand, “Fine, I don’t. I haven’t a clue,” he chuckled, “You had fun though, and that’s good enough with me.”

You snuggled up close to him, body almost falling into his lap, “Even with the beard?” Trick question. He’d laughed so much at the sight of you that you were (slightly, slightly) going to take some more thoughts before deciding on your next look, (if there was a next look to be decided on.)

His finger traced your moustache, an edge of your lips to your nose. “I like it,” he replied, voice calm, settled, and you knew he was telling the truth, “Keepin’ it classy.”

And he’d mussed up your hair with his free hand, chunks falling over your forehead, the once-combed fallow hair in disarray. (Seemed to be his favorite hobby at the moment—messing you up. As if he wasn’t breaking you down every time he came over. Lips that unraveled the threads of your mind, wherever they came in contact with you. Hands that set fire to your skin at a mere brush. Voice that sent ripples through your heart when he spoke. Broken down. Scattered head, scattered mind. Circling around nothing but him.

Dangerous.

But you’d already fallen into his trap.)

You pouted, caught his eye, “You’re messing it up again, how classy.”

He dropped the tennis ball on the floor. Hands cupped your cheeks. “You’re cuter when you’re not as put together.”

(Whatever he was trying to say, you didn’t try to understand.)

A snort. “Held my hairdryer that _one_ time,” fingers drawing aimless patterns on his arm, “And now you’re saying you like me dishevelled.”

Pressed his lips to the skin just above your lips—on your moustache.

“I like you, period,” he whispered, nose nuzzling yours, “I like you.”

Flooding warmth in your stomach, and it was only half past noon.

(Damn it, Pete.)

“Is that a confession I’m hearing, Parker?” you slipped into your interrogative tone, even roped in his last name. Your lips swept over his, fleeting. A deliberate tease on your part.

His tongue darted out. Moistened his lips, and yours went dry.

“You keeping a record, Officer?” he’d asked back, eyes bright, “Because if you are, I’m going to have to explain why.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Go ahead.”

“I like you,” he started, lips on your neck (Mhm. Good.), “When you’ve just woken up in the morning.

I like you, when your hair’s a scruffy bedhead.

I like you, when you’d rub your eyes and ask me why I’ve gotten here so early, and your voice’s still hoarse from all the shouting you’d done the night before at the company, your eyes so drowsy they keep falling shut.

I like you, when you’d stretch out your arms and ask me to help you up from bed. Muttering nonsense about why I shouldn’t have caught you at this hour.

I like you, when you’d trip over your foot and fall into my arms. Maybe on purpose, I don’t know. It’s you—so I can’t (he broke off into a short laugh here) fully say it’s an accident.

I like you, dressed down. Simple. A little lost, but still here.

I like you, as yourself, I like you.”

_Jesus Christ._

You blinked.

Said words again when you’d found your voice, “Looks like I’m arresting you either way, sorry.”

(And they came out shaky, shivering. Not at all complacent like you’d wanted. Stupid, _stupid_ mind.)

He grinned, hands crept onto your waist, “And punish me? Are you going to have to do that as well?”

You let him draw you into his arms, “I like you, Peter Parker,” you murmured, “You big sappy nerd, I like you.”

He nodded, fingers tangled in your hair.

“I know,” he squeezed your hand, “I know.”


	2. all I need (is a little love)

It's another day at the end of June. The weather was stifling hot, for a New York City summer, humidity shooting through the roof. Beads of sweat on your forehead and back, even when it's barely noon. (Ten. Ten thirty. Roughly then. You guessed.)

Your fingers picked at the front of your black Oasis tee, anxious, skittish. A hand waved up and down frantically in the air, in your direction, fanning yourself.

You'd been laying down on the couch, in front of the TV in the living room, feet propped up on a self-built fort of throw pillows, (record timing assembly at its finest, compared to other forts built so far this summer, but it's only June. Okay, July. Technically. Only technically. The summer—flimsy, capricious, fickle—was already slipping by, and you didn't want it to.) when the air conditioner whirred, grunted, and rocked like it was running out of the will to live (not too unlike your worried nerves sizzling in this killer heat.) and subsequently went quiet.

Dead quiet. As in, death. And silence.

You'd thrown a crumbled up ball of yesterday's _Bugle_ (Spiderman wasn't on the cover. It was okay. Absolutely permissible. You weren't committing a sin to the Spidey community, you'd already checked.) at the heat pump of a machine. Shouted a few fuck you's to the inanimate object, and refused to move camp. You'd taken a while to set yourself up to watch the premiere of a music video on TV, at the best spot to glimpse the breathtaking Manhattan skyline from your mansion. And alerted a manservant to call up the AC technician, who should be coming around pretty damn soon.

(And if he's cute—by cute, you were thinking a tall brunette with a to-die-for waist to shoulder ratio, sparkling eyes, plump, kissable lips, and a sweet, perfectly formed ass. Who is also possibly a stammering, glasses-wearing halo playing geek, like the last one—then waiting around seemed to be as good an option to choose. Especially if it'd get steamy enough for him to peel off his shirt and—

Hey, you were paying. A little show to feed the eyes wouldn't hurt. Not like you'd get your hands on him. For now. Bit of flirting. Bit of wordplay. Liven up the heat. Send him smiling off. Send you grinning back.

All's fair in flirtation and the exercising of charms.

Besides, you're the one who's certainly getting fucked tonight.)

Stupid enough for a summer morning, but you weren't letting the AC win this round.

Peter had strolled in without knocking. Again. (Knocking: defined here as entering security code and getting bag and body checked by highly trained, ex-CIA agents now working as your security guards. That….might explain why he usually preferred the one sentence, "I'm with Harold Theopolis (you'd never told anyone but him your middle name, and the guards were supposed to stick to that.)" as his all-inclusive pass into the Osborn mansion (and into your pants. But that was a thing no one was complaining about. Much less you. Or him. He's welcome to this ass anytime he's up for it, pun intended.))

He was smiling, lips almost stretched to his ears, way too smug for the rising temperature and the sticky clothes clinging to both your backs. (You'd seen the future (Hm. Yes, please. I'd like one of those.)—and the future was the skin underneath that see-through, thoroughly soaked, thin Gap tee shirt (Gap. _Gap!_ You'd have to take him shopping soon. Real soon.)) and you'd wondered why all the merriment—nobody died, nobody was celebrating anything in the City. What the hell was he so happy about?

"So you're all Mr. Grumpy faced now that your AC's gone kaput, Har?" he was standing in front of the TV, opposite the couch where you were laying.

You pointed a vague middle finger in the direction of the AC, a few feet above his head. "Did I look that bummed out?" you asked, voice solemn, "My apologies."

You half sat up and reached for the glass of orange juice on the table on the left of the couch.

A sip of the fruity nectar, and you found taking in another deep breath, when you put the glass back down, much easier, "I was waiting for some cute AC guy to turn up."

Honesty is the best policy, as the saying goes, ain't it?

He tilted his head, finger wagging at your face. "Naughty," he tutted, "And here I was going to give you a show."

Interesting.

The morning just got hotter. In a good way.

You leaned back on the couch, thumb and index fingers rubbing together.

"A show," you repeated, mildly incredulous, looking him up and down (no props. Except his iPhone. And a hat. What kind of a show was he planning? If it's the sort you were thinking, he wasn't quite dressed up for it, save for the tee.) "Am I allowed my refunds if it does not adequately satisfy my needs?"

"'Fraid I can't give you that luxury," he replied, hooking up his iPhone to the stereo dock, "You're advised to take it up with me personally if unsatisfied."

His tongue rolled over _personally_ with relish, of the subtext you two both could read.

He turned to press play. The song started, and you didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Peter Benjamin Parker, you honestly can't be serious."

Bouncy pop beats. A guitar lead in.

"I've heard you jamming to _One Direction_ in the bath. Don't lie, Harry."

_All I need is a little love in my life._

"You're going to cause me a premature heart attack."

Peter winked, shook his head. Stood in his place in front of the TV. In front of the couch. A private show, indeed.

"You deserved it."

_All I need is a little love in the dark._

He'd picked up the hat and put it on.

_A little but it might kickstart...me and my broken heart._

"I've never heard this song before in my life," you’d grabbed nearest pillow and was hugging it tight in your arms.

He tsked, "I saw the playlist in your iTunes. Technology doesn't lie, Har, don't hide it."

_I need a little love tonight. Hold me so I'm not falling apart._

That did it. You'd blushed scarlet, your cheeks heated.

_A little but I'm hoping it might kickstart. Me and my broken heart._

This was also when he stood, legs close together, feet pointed toward you, eyes cast down.

_Yeah._

Bopped his head along to the beats, and you frankly wanted to stop breathing then and there.

He wasn't singing, not exactly (Peter couldn't sing. That you knew better than anyone.), more lip synching, pretending to be the band's lead singer, Jake Roche. (You weren't Wikipedia-ing them up. You were just curious. And slightly bored. At eleven pm on a Sunday night.)

_Shotgun, aimed at my heart you got one._

Fingers formed a mock gun, aimed at the left side of his chest, face twisted, agonized.

You wanted to laugh, but couldn't.

_Tear me apart and then some._

Threw up his hands, arms outstretched, tongue hanging at one corner of his lips, more comical than serious.

Your skin itched, and you wanted to scream.

_How do we call this love?_

He'd look straight at you then, face leaning in close, body still moving along to the beats.

Oh. _God._

_Whoa-oh-oh-oh._

Hips swayed to the oh's, and you remembered suddenly that he'd gotten the state gymnastic championship award at twelve.

Flexible. So fucking flexible.

_I try._ _To run away but your eyes_ \- he stepped into your space, pinched your cheek with one hand.- _tell me to stay_ \- hand on his heart as he backed away to his starting place- _oh why-aye, why do we call this love?_

You clapped this time—bravo for the questioning, accusing stare he was working with his eyes.

_It seems like we've been losing control—_

Your favorite part. A bit of falsetto thrown in, and he shook his head, lips curled into a frown.

You wanted to die.

_Somebody tell me I'm not alone—_

Tapped, tapping at his heart again, eyes wide, begging.

_\--when I say--_

He'd threw off the hat, arms stretched out at either side of him, body swaying back and forth.

The music swung into full-on chorus, and you'd never been more thankful of your BOSE home stereo set, or your sound canceling walls, than at that moment.

_All I need is a little love in my life. All I need is a little love in the dark. A little but I'm hoping it might kickstart...me and my broken heart._

Oh.  
Just.

Fuck it.

You'd jumped up, pillow thrown down to the floor. Given in, and danced your way, backwards, to him, hips moving to the music, arms up to the level of your head and swaying.

You'd had your back to Peter, backing yourself up against him as you rocked your hips.

_I need a little love tonight_ , you sang (because you could sing way better, guaranteed. At least, you were the one who starred in _West Side Story_ , back in high school), wrapped arms around yourself, _Hold me so I'm not falling apart._

Raised your eyes at him. _A little but I'm hoping it might kickstart....me and my broken heart._

Beats.

He grabbed you then, turned you around to face him, and sang: _Baby, some parts of you just hates me_ (you shook your head, stuck out your tongue at him, arms wrapped around his neck).

_You picked me up and played me_ \- his lips grazed your ear. Shivers.

Tease.

_How do we call this love?_ Breathy whisper beside you, and you were certain you'd never hear this line in the same way again.

_Whoa-oh-oh-oh._ He'd slid his hands down your shoulders, to your waist, and held on, you both standing there, letting the twenty first century pop number wash you over.

_One time, tell me you need me tonight_ , you sang this time, two fingers brushing his chin. He'd shut his eyes briefly, heart still beating too audibly wild to be calm.

_And to make it easy you lie_ , he sang, brown eyes soft and fond and full of you, _And say it's all for love._

_Whoa-oh-oh-oh._

_It seems like we've been losing control_ , your turn. hands drew his face closer, down to your level, and drank in his lips.

_Somebody tell me I'm not alone--_

The music was ringing in your ears, way too upbeat now, but his lips was on yours. Mouths opened wide, and tongues entwined, twisted.

_\--when I say--_

"So you do like Rixton," he was saying when you broke apart, amused, forehead leaning on yours, "I knew it."

You chuckled, "They're decent."

A pause.

"Why'd you do this, anyway? Felt like dancing?"

He bopped you on the nose, another hand still holding onto your waist. "It's our anniversary, silly. The day we met up, when you came back into town."

The song ended, and you'd laughed.

"Christ," you ran a hand through your hair, "Has it been a year?"

He nodded, "With all this heat? You bet."

His eyes were boring into yours, inspective, direct, and your heart slowed down a little, knees weakened.

"Thanks," you muttered, sincere, and pressed your lips to his.

"Forget the AC guy," you were whispering, hand stroking his neck, "And fuck the heat."

"Tonight I want just you."

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to write fluffy drabbles to break the drama from the two long Parksborn one-shots ("always (to us)" and "stay") posted earlier, and this three-chapter drabble fic was born.
> 
> Thank you so much again for stopping by, reading, leaving kudos! Comments and criticisms are always appreciated :) <3
> 
> With love and ristretto.
> 
> x


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